2008
Jazz and Taxes
Sunday was weird. We spent the morning and afternoon in pajamas, paying our taxes (yes), and the evening gussied up at a jazz club where the patrons actually, earnestly, snapped in accompaniment to the poetry being recited over a background of slappy jazz bass. And now, a poem:
Jazz and Taxes
We
see-saw be-
tween the mundane
and the divine.
*snap*
Wombat was really digging on the bass, though; I could feel my amniotic fluid vibrating with the low notes, and the baby was up way past his bedtime
bebopping to
sweet beats
and to the pop
of fountain-drawn Diet Coke
(my reward for putting on heels and a dress on a weekend night).
In the glow of the low-
lit club,
I
redefined
what it means to
belly up
to the bar.
*snap*
2008
Who’s Your Daddy?
Know what sucks? When you find a messageboard thread made up of women commiserating about rib pain during pregnancy but then realize they’re all at 38 weeks, not 28, like you. Booooo.
***
And now, a short piece about why I’m glad Simon is the father of my child:
I have no worries about my ability to take care of baby. There will be times when I’m scared, confused, making mistakes left and right, sure, but I don’t think I’m going to, like, forget to feed him for a few days or something. I have full confidence that I’m competent enough to handle all of that. *fingers crossed*
What I’m not so good at, though, is taking care of myself, especially when it comes to my health. Pregnancy aside, I never go to the doctor, never take even an Advil for a headache, never want to inconvenience anyone (including a medical professional) with something that is most likely nothing and will go away on its own if I wait it out long enough. Some might call this delightfully low-maintenance; others might call it stupid at best and dangerous at worst, particularly when it comes to things like flesh-eating diseases or scary moles.
Simon has come to all but one of my prenatal appointments, and although I told him at the very beginning that he had so as long as I didn’t have a wedding ring to represent his presence as a committed partner in my life (which is not at all to dis single mothers but to show how very much I hate being misunderstood or misinterpreted), it turns out that he not only makes doctor’s appointments more fun but he also ensures that Questions that Need Asking actually get asked. We are both committed to taking care of the baby, but it’s good to know he’s equally committed to taking care of me.
I, not wanting to alarm anyone or draw undue attention to myself, tend to play everything off like no big deal. Those contractions I’ve been having sometimes unusually frequently for the last several weeks? Oh, that’s nothing. They don’t really hurt (usually), and they eventually go away (if I wait long enough), and I really must insist that everything is fine and good and under control, okay? It’s not like I’m leaking fluid all over the couch and the reason I can’t get comfortable is because the baby’s crowning. Will everybody just calm down? In a world full of nervous first-timers who call the doctor at every little twinge, some might say my attitude is refreshing. But again, some might say it’s stupid and dangerous.
But thank god for Simon. Even if everything is fine and under control, he says, why not just make sure? Why not tell the doc about the contractions, and their frequency and their triggers, and then maybe find out if it’s something we should actually be concerned about? And even though I’m still 98 percent sure that they’re no big deal–I’m probably just dehydrated–I have to admit that it’s reassuring to know that I have a watchdog and an advocate who will not only speak up about these things on my behalf but then also think ten steps ahead to what we might do just in case. Just in case I go into pre-term labor, what can be done to stop it? Just in case the contractions come more than four times an hour for several hours and don’t let up, what should we do? Just in case the baby comes early, can we schedule a hospital tour now? Just in case we deliver a preemie, what are his chances of a healthy recovery?
When we went to our 20-week ultrasound, the one abnormality the tech noticed was that one of Wombat’s kidneys was slightly enlarged. It was still well within normal range (especially since this issue is common in baby boys and usually resolves itself by the time they’re born), but it was nevertheless enough to warrant a second look by the perinatologist, who came, looked, shrugged, and told us not to worry about it, and then left. I, being the refreshing and delightfully low-maintenance patient that I am, was at that point also content to shrug, not worry about it, and leave, but Simon was not:
“Does an enlarged kidney hurt the baby? Is he feeling any pain?”
My first reaction upon hearing that was “Oh no! I didn’t even think of that! What kind of a horrible mother doesn’t think to ask that question? I’m an unfit parent!” It honestly didn’t even occur to me that our little guy might have a tummyache, and whoosh, there goes my Mother of the Year Award.
The most significant part of my reaction, however, was an intense feeling of pride and thankfulness to have such a caring, thoughtful, intelligent partner at my side through all of this. He takes care of me, he takes care of the baby, he takes care of the baby before he’s even officially a “baby,” and the recent efforts he’s made to also take care of himself (e.g., finally going to the physical therapist to deal with his slipped disc after two years of pain and deformity) have been as much about caring for his little family as about meeting his own needs. “I need to be able to pick up my son,” he tells the back doctor. “I want to be able to run with him in a jogging stroller,” he tells me. “I can’t wait to see you and hold you and take you to outdoor concerts in the Ergo carrier!” he tells Wombat, speaking at my belly in a high-pitched voice through the megaphone of his cupped hands.
He takes care of us because he loves us. We love him because we never thought we’d be this lucky. We also love him just because we love him. Because he’s our daddy. Because he’s ours.
2008
Pound Cake
Eating has become more complicated since The Onset of The Reflux because I must now approach each meal with the mindset of not only “what would taste good right this minute” but also “what will taste good an hour from now, and an hour after that” because, well, you know how The Reflux is, that bitch. Finding a food that satisfies both criteria is hard and makes me cranky. Also hungry, because even the perfect food (du moment)must be consumed in small quantities due to the not-insignificant fact that my stomach is no longer the nice-sized pouch it once was but now more like a 4 oz. inflexible ramekin boobytrapped with an eject button that goes off whenever I move from sitting to standing, standing to sitting, sitting to reclining, rolling from one side to another, or even thinking about attempting one of the above acrobatics.
Anyway, last night Simon and I went to a big fancy ceremony in a big fancy venue in big fancy San Francisco for my not-so-big and decidedly unfancy but brilliant and awesome and inspiring boss. (I wish I could tell you who he is and then invite you over to meet him because he’s amazing.) The big fancy ceremony was followed by a reception that was so big and fancy there was a photographer there shooting portraits of attendees for, I suspect, the Sunday paper’s Society Pages, and at this reception there was, of course, food–tiny fancy food, because everyone knows that fancy food is, by design, tiny.
Unfortunately, The Reflux was also in attendance, and the only thing that sounded good to me was a big-ass plate of sliced oranges. But of course there were no sliced oranges at the reception because the caterers had unthinkingly blown their budget on trays of miniature risotto cakes and martini glasses full of salmon and caviar and itty-bitty take-out boxes containing spicy noodles. Phooey.
When I saw the cupcake table, however, I was saved, for there was a chocolate one with a raspberry on top! Fruit! Beloved fruit! Too bad I wanted a handful of raspberries instead of just a single one. Too bad also that I wasn’t bold enough to just pick them out of their buttercream frosting nests while no one was looking. Can you imagine what the Society Pages would say if I were caught? Mon dieu.
The worst part about the whole cupcake thing, however, was that it forced me to arrive at the full realization that I have no willpower whatsoever. Just hours before, I was standing on the scale at the doctor’s office marvelling at another seven-pounds-in-three-weeks weight gain and fortifying myself against the impending excision of brownies, doughnuts, french fries, ice cream, and kiddy cereals from my diet. And this time I was serious. Really really serious.
Flash forward to three hours later and I’m glad-handing Society Folks with chocolate crumbs on my chin and frosting on my nose. Flash foward to right this minute, as I daintily devour a cupcake decorated to look like Kermit’s head. So! I think this is going well!
Although I joke about it, the whole pregnancy pounds thing is honestly kind of a trip. I was never a person who thought about her weight (I’m more of a focus-on-specific-flawed-body-parts type of girl), and although I knew that my pre-pregnancy numbers meant I didn’t need to be overly concerned about growing to a size that would endanger the earth’s gravitational balance, I still had a framework and a goal in mind. And I know that the weight gain recommended by all the books and websites and experts is just an approximate guide andthat everyone is different and that it’s not “fat” it’s “baby” and that there are so many other things more important than this, but still…Seven pounds in three weeks (and this is now the second time in a row I’ve racked up those stats) is kind of scary.
Even scarier is that I’m not scared enough to Just Say No to the brownies I hear calling me from the kitchen. I can’t help it; they know my name. And they also don’t taste too bad on the way back up an hour later.
